


Bones to Crack

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [35]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, Fighting Kink, Light Masochism, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2019-10-07 09:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17363870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: You pick a fight with exactly the wrong person.





	Bones to Crack

**Author's Note:**

> title is from wolverines by queen adreena

This asshole comes in, bumps shoulders with a skinhead biker on his way to the bar counter, and gets yelled at for half a second before he knocks the bastard’s fucking teeth out. A couple of them, red at the roots and covered in saliva, skitter across the floor and end up in some dark, dusty corner, and you slowly follow their path back up to his blood-covered knuckles. He wipes his hand on his pants and slides into an empty seat to order something. The biker staggers out the door clutching his mouth.

You know you’re staring and you don’t care. You’re not the only one and he isn’t paying attention anyway, ignoring cheers and taunts thrown in his direction as he sips at his beer, either oblivious or uncaring that he’s become the conversation centerpiece for everyone around him. The bartender makes his way over to you, his eyes never leaving the crowd growing on the other end of the bar, and he leans one arm on the counter, whispering, “No offense, but I think you’re fucked.”

“Who the fuck is that?” you demand. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“That’s Vincent. He’s new, just got into town a few days ago.”

Your eyes trace the scars on his arms and face, jagged and vicious-looking. You aren’t sure you want to know what he did to get them. “The guy’s a tank,” you mutter. “He’s gotta be, what, six foot something, right?” You spend another minute sizing him up before you turn to the bartender, sliding a few bills across the counter. “Get him another shot.”

“You really like poking the hornet’s nest, don’t you?” he mutters, but he takes the money and starts pouring a glass. You make your way across the bar, floor panels creaking under your slow stride, watching him carefully. The fight—if it can even be called that—is over, but he’s still tense, shoulders squared to look larger and more imposing, and despite the lazy smile on his face as he chats up a scantily-clad customer leaning against him you see his gaze wandering from time to time like he’s looking for something. Something about this guy doesn’t sit right with you.

“Vincent, right?” you call, leaning back against the counter as the bartender sets a shot glass near him and quickly backs off.

You have his undivided attention. He glances from the alcohol to you with a startled look on his face.

“It’s on me.” You give him a crooked smile. “Thought I’d welcome the new guy.”

He laughs. “Thanks,” he says, downing the whole thing immediately without an ounce of apparent discomfort, wiping his mouth on his forearm. “I heard I could make a little extra cash here. Know anything about that?”

You nod. “There’s a betting pool,” you explain. “You beat the shit out of somebody and get a cut of that.”

“Alright. Who’m I beating up tonight?”

Your eyes narrow. “You’ve got it backwards, man. _I’m_ beating the shit out of _you_.”

There’s a long pause. Vincent takes a good, long look at you—looks you up and down, even, and you know he’s just taking in an eyeful of the competition and trying to figure you out but it feels like he’s looking right through your clothes—and a grin slowly works its way onto his face. “You, huh?” he asks, voice pitched lower suddenly.

He’s _laughing at you._ You’re going to make him regret setting foot in here.

Vincent stands up from the bar stool, holding your gaze as he leans in so you can feel his breath on your face. He reeks of booze; you’re surprised he’s so steady on his feet. “I’m not one to tell other people how to live their lives,” he says with a dark chuckle, “but you might wanna think about this.”

“I didn’t ask for your fucking advice,” you growl.

He shrugs. “Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He backs off and you pretend your entire body doesn’t relax when he gives you space to breathe. Chairs and tables are hurriedly shoved against the wall to give you both room. The bartender takes the blackboard with daily specials written across it down from over the bar and wipes it clean, writing your name on one side and Vincent’s on the other as people file past to place their bets.

You’re reigning champion here, but the vote’s split pretty evenly between the two of you. You take off your jacket and act like you’re smoothing your shirt down as you check to make sure your pocket knife is where you left it.

Vincent stares you down from a few feet away, never breaking eye contact or dropping his excited grin as he asks, “Any house rules I should know about?”

“You lose when you can’t fight anymore,” the bartender says. “You can take that however you want. Try not to kill each other, though, I don’t need the cops gawking over your body on my floor.”

“That very common?”

“Accidents happen,” you scoff.

He doesn’t even flinch. His grin widens.

For the first time that night, the bar is dead silent. You don’t even hear anyone breathing. Sweat runs down the middle of your back and you stay on the balls of your feet, expecting him to swing first.

He doesn’t go straight for you. He starts circling you like a wolf and you mirror his movements, trying not to turn your back to him. You’re about to ask if you’re going to do this all night when you see him stumble just a little on the loose teeth on the floor, and you’re on him before he can blink, your knife glinting in the low light as it flashes out of your pocket. The blade is an inch from his chest when he catches your wrist in mid-air.

Your eyes widen in disbelief.

“Just got back from active duty,” he tells you with a chuckle, like that fucking means anything. You get war vets in here all the time and not one of them has pulled something like this.

He grips you hard enough that you wince and drop the weapon, your heart racing at the sound of the steel clattering on the floor seconds before his fist collides with your face. He lets you go and you struggle to stay on your feet, blood dripping down your chin and splattering on the floor. You touch your fingertips gently to your nose and inhale sharply, certain it’s broken.

“You don’t look so good,” he taunts. He lifts his hand and licks your blood off of his fingers. This guy isn’t like most of them. He’s not just riding an adrenaline high, he’s enjoying this in a pure, visceral way, getting off on it, and he wants you to know. 

Before you even have half a plan in mind, he rushes at you and takes you by surprise. You try to get out of his reach but don’t move quite fast enough. He knees you hard in the stomach, and you fall to the ground, gasping for air. He takes you by the throat and slams your head back against the hardwood floor, pinning you with his body weight settled on your stomach, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

He doesn’t even say anything, he just hits you again and again, your lip splitting as your mouth fills with the taste of your own blood and you feel your bruised skin swelling painfully. You scratch weakly at any part of him you can reach but you don’t have the momentum to push him off of you. You tense in apprehension and gasp when you feel another one coming, but he stops, fist hovering in the air, and laughs at the fear on your bloodied face.

“Bit off more than you could chew, huh?” he murmurs, and you hear something scrape over the floor when he reaches behind himself. Your heart stops when he brings your own knife into view, testing the sharp end on his fingertip and looking pleased when he draws blood.

“I-I think they’re down,” you hear him someone stammer in the corner.

Vincent looks up, raising a brow. “Well, sure, they’re down,” he says, “doesn’t mean they’re done fighting.” He runs the knife over your collarbones, slicing into your skin. You give little more than a pained hiss, clenching your teeth together, until he suddenly jams the blade into the meat of your shoulder, a scream tearing out of your throat. “They’ve still got plenty of fight left in them,” he says, and there’s an excited cheer from the people gathered around you.

 _Fucking traitors,_ you think.

He tangles his fingers in your hair and yanks your head back, exposing your throat to him. “You’ve been glaring at me this whole time,” he murmurs, speaking lower than the jeers from the peanut gallery above you like he’s trying to keep them from hearing. “Not used to being the one on the floor, huh?”

“If you’re gonna do something, fucking do it,” you hiss, trying and failing to keep him from ripping out some of your hair as you wrap both hands around one of his muscular arms.

“I will. I just wanted to check something first,” and then he rocks forward, pressing his crotch against yours, and you choke on an undignified sound and feel heat rush to your face. He smirks. “Thought so. You’re really liking this.”

“Fuck off, you don’t know anything—!” you start to say, renewing your struggles as you try to buck him off of you.

He punches you again, but it’s more careful and deliberate, painful but not as damaging as his knuckles drag over your cheek. Someone starts cheering and spills their beer on somebody else, and another brawl starts on the other end of the bar.

In the chaos, Vincent goes completely unheard when he smiles down at you and says, “You didn’t even know, did you?”

“G-get off me,” you say shakily, afraid and ashamed. Only half of the bar is paying attention anymore but you can feel their eyes on you.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” he says in a mockingly kind tone. “Wish I’d known sooner, I would’ve suggested we take this outside….”

A third fight breaks out and a chair gets thrown across the room. One of the legs strikes Vincent across the back of the head and knocks him off-balance, and you put all of your weight into rolling onto your side, throwing him off of you. You’re both climbing to your feet and he tries to step back, still rubbing the back of his head, but you close the distance between you and land a solid hit on the side of his face. 

He stumbles but doesn’t fall, and you’re just starting to feel confident when his hand shoots out and takes a fistful of your shirt collar. He throws you against the wall, taking your head in both of his hands and slamming it back hard enough that you feel the wood splinter behind you. Everything blurs and you feel sick, bile burning its way up your throat. You hear shouting, glass breaking, and your own heartbeat loud in your ears.

Vincent breathes heavily, face flushed, and laughs. “This is some welcome,” he says, “but I don’t think either of us are making any money tonight.”

You look blearily over at the counter. The blackboard is smashed in half on the ground and the bartender is nowhere to be seen.

“I don’t really care, though. I’ll gladly beat the shit out of you anyway.”

You’re trembling—in rage, in terror, in embarrassment. “I was undefeated until you showed up,” you tell him, voice shaking.

He keeps a harsh grip on the back of your neck so you meet his eyes. “That sucks,” he says. “Better get used to it. I think I like you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Nah. Not this time.” You flinch when he drags cold metal over your sore cheek, eyes flying to the glass-covered bar floor where you thought your knife was.

You realize he isn’t holding yours. He’s had one this whole time, he just preferred using his hands.

“We’ll save that for later. I’m having plenty of fun right now.” he says and licks a hot trail along the side of your neck, giving you a harsh bite below the ear. “And I think you are, too.”

You open your mouth to deny it and he punches you in the gut. The sound you make is somewhere between a whimper and a moan and a shiver runs through you. Vincent chuckles low in his throat. The idea of just rolling over and taking it has never appealed to you,

until now.


End file.
